


Unexpected

by travellinghopefully



Series: Jamie and Malcolm [6]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Smut, Thriller, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is not my intention to offend anyone by borrowing from reality - I hope I have done justice to Willie MacRae</p>
<p>There is violence - its not that bad.... </p>
<p>There is one mention of child abuse and domestic abuse</p>
<p>Now - for those of you who don't like Jamie/Malcolm - please read this (no, really)</p>
<p>This is a thriller based on the incredible true story of Willie MacRae (go, google) - obviously I have altered reality to fit in Jamie and Malcolm.</p>
<p>For those of you who don't appreciate smut, I have put it in one chapter (except for the kiss) so you can skip past it and stick with the story (SKIP CHAPTER 3 - if its not your thing - and I think the story will still make sense)</p>
<p>I really, really like this story, I hope you do too - as always I really, really love comments</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a true story, there is violence. (Three warnings - that has to be enough.)
> 
> I thought I should write a first kiss story, I decided to google political stories in Glasgow in the 80s, deciding to go with convention that Malcolm started out as a journalist - this is where I ended up.
> 
> Really, google the Willie MacRae story, it will blow your mind. (Well it did mine.)
> 
> There was an Edinburgh Fringe play (not by Malcolm) 
> 
> There is crowd funding for a proper enquiry.
> 
> I am not involved in this in any way - but I really would like to see the truth
> 
> So, this is how you go from a first kiss to John Grisham!
> 
> Oh, and, you know, just in case, there is always time for lube....

Malcolm settled on the sofa, tucking himself in behind Jamie. He grabbed a handful of Hula Hoops from the bowl on his lap, and captured Jamie’s hand when he tried to swat him away. He ran his fingers absentmindedly over the heavy gold band. Smiling he lifted Jamie’s hand to his lips and kissed and licked the fingers, savouring the taste of salt and Jamie. He let go of his hand and nuzzled into Jamie’s neck, breathing him in and letting the day fall away.

He was fucking knackered, no more than that, bitter and angry and sad and the cunting train journey hadn’t helped. He blanked his mind to what had happened last. Concentrating on the simple pleasure of stealing crisps, holding the other memory back.

Jamie had told him to book first class, he had the money, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

He would have taken the chocolate smeared toddler opposite over the boring cunt of a business man who kept trying to engage him in a discourse about cricket. Did he look so old people automatically assumed he liked cricket? He was fucking Scottish, cricket was an anathema. 

He tried to bury himself in his ipad and his notes, earphones plugged in as the universal signal to “fucking, fuck off”, wincing at the excuse for coffee he was forced to drink. and still the man tried to talk to him. He couldn’t get away, he was pinned in by the table and having taken the window seat – they were 15 minutes out of Glasgow Central when he began to contemplate paying for the upgrade. By Motherwell, he was running through detailed ways to dismember the man and dispose of his body. 

He had cause to thank the toddler when he splattered the man with his yoghurt, causing him to bolt for the toilets. Abandoning his case, Malcolm had gathered up the cloud of ephemera that he dragged round with him and prowled until he could find a quiet space to work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
30 years ago  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
He’d been 27, not quite a cub reporter – but still hungry, still keen. Not jaded, not disillusioned, not cynical, still certain he could make a difference. 

Fucking idealistic, fucking cunt. 

And he had a fucking brilliant story. He’d approached Willie MacRae over his anti-nuclear stance, a bread and butter piece, but it had been nothing like that. 

What MacRae had told him was explosive, it went so far beyond anything he could imagine. They’d met in a different anonymous bar each time, the air heavy with smoke and spilled drinks. MacRae knew he was being watched and he was as cautious as a cat. Malcolm had no fucking idea why he’d decided to trust him. But he had. This wasn’t about dumping waste at sea. This was a plot straight out of Hollywood. 

MacRae had shown him the evidence, let him make notes, even tape stuff, but he wouldn’t let Malcolm make copies. Every piece of paper he carried with him, his house had been burgled so many times, he even slept with the documents. Malcolm couldn’t believe what MacRae was telling him, this was the kind of story that made a career. 

An alleged paedophile ring in Westminster. He had the names, the locations, the witnesses, every detail of the vile corruption – it would rip the black beating heart out of British politics. Fuck, he wasn’t sure where the ramifications would stop.


	2. 5th April 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened - and the kiss  
> Oh, and the violence

Malcolm woke to the sound of the phone ringing in the hall. He couldn’t afford one in his flat, but the rest of the folk didn’t kick up too much of a fuss when he took calls all day and night. Sometimes they even took messages for him. But they’d fucking gut him if he didn’t answer it/stop the ringing. It was as cold as a witch’s tit and Malcolm shuddered as his feet hit the cold lino and then the stone of the passage. He thought he’d reached it by the 5th ring.

The voice, he’d never forget, thickly Irish, low and menacing.

“MacRae’s dead. You’re next.”

Fuck. 

Surely that wasn’t possible. 

Fuck. 

MacRae was so careful. He replaced the receiver, went into his flat and gathered every scrap of anything that could be to do with the story. He dressed hurriedly, it was pissing down and his mac was as much use as a colander and his shoes were little better. 

Next pay day, if his cunting brother-in-law didn’t drink his sister’s money and leave her and the bairns hiding from the rent collector again. 

Fucking useless cunt. 

His sister should never have married him, what fucking difference did it make she’d been up the duff? He’d have taken care of her, anything would have been better than her having married him. Three more kids and she said it’d be a mortal sin to leave him. Malcolm knew what he thought sin was, the bruises she hid from him, the money she never had, the bairns cold and afraid. And she wouldn’t let him touch him, he wanted to beat and kick the man so badly for everything he’d done, it made his skin itch.

Hunched into his coat, head down, leaning forward against the wind, he made it three streets before they jumped him. He didn’t hear them coming. They held him, searched him, took everything he had and then he saw the knife. 

Fuck. 

They really were going to kill him. He laughed. He was going to fucking die and he laughed. He tried not to think of his sister, the feel of his insides turning to liquid, the shaking he couldn’t stop. So, he laughed. He did wonder if he’d warrant an obituary and which fucking useless hack would write it? A booted foot kicked the air from him. He probably screamed. Great, they weren’t going to gut him straight way, they were going to hurt him first, fucking fabulous. They had questions, each one with a kick or a punch, holding his hair, so when his head snapped back he felt clumps rip out. The crunch as his nose broke, the taste of blood the gasping fear of choking.

Suddenly, the sound of running footsteps. Fucking salvation. Malcolm was on his hands and knees, vomiting and spitting blood. 

“Fucking, fuck me.”

It was a group, flock? Of priests. He should know the collective noun for priests. A seminary? He wondered how hard he’d hit his head. (Much, much later he looked it up: a discretion, a lechery, a mass, a superfluity – he wasn’t sure which he preferred, or which was accurate.) One of the crows was running off to phone for an ambulance, the others stood around. Fucking hell, he’d been rescued by priests. He wasn’t sure why that was so fucking funny. He was giggling. Everything fucking hurt. 

He wasn’t sure if he’d blacked out. He woke, or maybe he didn’t, his head cradled in a man’s lap. The man was carefully stroking his hair, shushing him, telling him he was safe, telling him he would be all right, trying to shield him from the driving rain. Fuck, he had the bluest eyes, blackest hair and whitest skin, he looked like fucking heaven. Dimly, Malcolm heard the sound of sirens, then nothing for several days.

He came to in a hospital bed, attempted to sit up and moaned as his head exploded, and he felt as if his stomach was going to exit through his ears. He slumped back as cautiously and carefully as he could. A sister bustled over to him, scolding him, chastising him, telling him he should know better. He couldn’t protest, he couldn’t argue, when he finally edged a word in, he begged for water, that she grudgingly handed him.

When the shift changed, he managed to inveigle a much younger and gentler nurse into getting him is clothes back, find out what day it was, and how bad his injuries really were. Concussion, broken bones, contusions, some internal bleeding. Nothing that sounded like it would kill him. His clothes made him look like a fucking tramp, but he had to get into work.

Somehow the editor gave him the time of day and listened to his story. No fucking evidence, nothing they could publish, nothing they could fucking do. 

MacRae was dead, found in his car, shot, saying it was fucking suicide. The editor told him to take the week off. 

Malcolm made it back to his flat – it had been ransacked, not a stick of furniture was unbroken, every thing ripped open, shredded, torn apart, his books destroyed (that grieved him more than he cared to admit). Every packet, every tin, the contents of his fridge, the cistern in the bathroom, the panel on the bath – everything. 

Fuck this. 

He coaxed a meagre amount of hot water out of the tank, bathed as well as he could, not looking at the cuts and bruises, ignoring the burning pain where ever the soap touched. 

He made up as much of a bed as he could, piled up what he could lift of the furniture remains against the door and fell asleep.

When he surfaced again, he really had no fucking clue what to do. He went to the police. They were barely polite, utterly disinterested, told him fucking nothing, and he wasn’t certain they’d written down anything he’d said. If he’d had to bet, he would have said they’d written out their picks for the pools on Saturday.

He decided to track down the priests, the fuckers who’d attacked him might have dropped something, they might have heard something. Plus, he owed them a drink. Priests drank, he kept as far away from them as he could, but every one he knew, every one he met, they all drank.

He arranged to see them in a mutually agreed bar. Not one that he’d been to before, just a little out of his comfortable price range. He sat nursing a dram and a pint. After an hour he decided he’d been stood up. He laughed. He hadn’t wasted the time. He wrote every single thing he remembered, the hints, the allusions, the names – he wouldn’t let the story die. Fuck, it had almost cost him his life. He shrugged, he felt nothing for MacRae, but the story, the story was everything. He downed the dregs of his glass in one swallow and stood up to leave. He almost collided with the priest, the one who’d cradled him, the one that looked like sin. They exchanged pleasantries, apologies, enquiries about health. Malcolm bought drinks, and then more drinks, (spent more than he could afford), they talked, about everything, about books about football, everything except the assault. Eventually the priest shot up, saying he’d miss curfew. 

Malcolm followed him outside, it was pissing down again and he’d not replaced his coat. He wasn’t sure if it was the drink, the cold, exhaustion or the blue of his eyes, but he had the priest up against the wall of the pub in the dark of the filthy alley. Crushing his mouth under his, cupping his face with his hand, running his fingers through his hair, moaning when the man’s mouth opened under his, as their tongues twined. Groaning at the heat of their bodies pressed together. Slipping one hand down between them Malcolm stroked the other man. With that he’d pushed back and turned and ran. Malcolm shook his head, fucking brilliant. The icy rain found its way through his shirt, he hunched in on himself and headed for home.


	3. Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter with smut

30 fucking years and he couldn’t let it go. He’d written a play for the Edinburgh Fringe (no that any fucker would every know it was him), petitioned, probed and kept the investigation going. Adding to his files, the story he couldn’t let go. Now people were starting to listen, now people were paying attention. 30 years and the story was going to be told. Malcolm’s name wasn’t going to be anywhere near it, the book he’d ghosted and was sitting awaiting publication was enough. Justice might not be served, but the scum who’d hidden from the light for too long, they’d have no hiding place. Privilege, age, honours, infirmity –nothing would protect the fuckers any more. The story would be told.

Jamie turned off the tv, poured Malcolm a generous glass of whiskey, didn’t pass comment on the papers that covered the floor, the table, the sofa. He took the laptop away from Malcolm, set it carefully down, cleared enough space to take Malcolm into his arms.

“Talk to me. Tell me.”

“Do you remember when we first met?” He didn’t say, do you remember the first time I kissed you.

Jamie honestly didn’t. He’d thought they met some other time, some other place. He’d never forgotten the man in the rain, the first man he’d held in his arms, the first man who’d kissed him, but somehow he’d never realised, never known it was Malcolm. In his defence, he’d been so badly beaten, his own mother wouldn’t have recognised him and they’d never exchanged names. Jamie tried to control the smile that wouldn’t leave his face.

Malcolm told him everything. It was gone 3 when he finished. Except for the last part, the last part could wait. The morning would be soon enough. Between them they’d drunk most of the bottle too. They both stumbled a little when they stood. 

Malcolm snaked an arm round Jamie, pulling him close, starting to kiss him just under his ear. He allowed himself a glance out of the window, just to check, just to make sure. Humming gently as he nipped and sucked. Jamie wasn’t having any of it, he wasn’t in the mood for slow, he wasn’t in the mood for teasing. He grabbed Malcolm’s arse and pulled him as close as possible. He paused, looking deep into Malcolm’s eyes, and the look he gave him, was enough to make him moan. He tangled his fingers in Malcolm’s hair and kissed him ‘til they were both dizzy.

“Bed?”

“Fuck aye.”

Malcolm turned to head up stairs and Jamie pulled him back again, already feeling cold without him pressed against him. He held him there.

Malcolm began to carefully take off his clothes, fold them, put them on hangers, consign them to the laundry. Jamie really didn’t have any patience, he stepped up to him – took his shirt in both hands, pulled it out from his trousers and proceeded to rip it off him. He kissed down Malcolm’s throat, lingering over the dips and hollows. Nuzzling and licking, sucking and kissing, using his free hand, the one not holding Malcolm in place, to rub small circles over the small of his back. He licked over Malcolm’s nipples, making him buck, just slightly against him.

Jamie had perfected the art of not listening to Malcolm. He watched him, his hands, his fingers, his mouth, his eyes, until he had enough. Grabbing his hands in his, lifting his fingers to his mouth, unconsciously swirling his tongue over Malcolm’s ring. Sucking and licking until Malcolm stopped talking, until his breath came in ragged gasps, until Malcolm was really looking at him.

His eyes, they changed colours on his mood, the weather, what he wore: blue, grey, dark green, even a flash of gold. Now, best of all, his eyes, framed by those expressive brows and exquisite lashes, now, his pupils were blown with lust. He reached up his hand, resting it gently against Jamie’s face, stroking his cheek with his thumb. Jamie leaned into the touch, allowing his own eyes to close as Malcolm kissed him. He walked Malcolm backwards towards the bed, ‘til they were both toppling, landing in a tangled heap.

His arse was perfect. He had to resist digging his fingernails in, resist biting, just cup and hold and grip as tightly as he could with his fingers. The perfect tapering of his back as it met his arse, too thin though, the muscles of his back, his shoulders a perfect study for an anatomy class. He never fucking let him take photos, he’d begged and pleaded – but no. So he concentrated on memorising him every time he had him naked – trying to map out as much of him as he could with his mouth, his lips, his tongue, his fingers. 

Malcolm was infinitely patient at moments like these, allowing him as much time as he needed. Refusing to acknowledge the little contended sights he made – the slightest huffs of irritation when Jamie nipped, the moans when he sucked, the shift of his hips as he lingered, kissing every sweet spot. Flipping him over and kissing every inch of his hips, every prominence, every dip. Finally moving closer to his thighs, kissing up from the inside of his knee, lingering, nuzzling, until the infinite patience was finite. Malcolm hauling him up to kiss him, their tongues fucking each other’s mouths. Both breathless, both reaching for the lube. Malcolm smiling and saying his favourite words, “fuck me.”

Jamie took his time. Slicking his fingers thoroughly he worked Malcolm carefully and slowly, he was impatient, but never for this, for this, he took his time. It didn’t mean he didn’t lose focus and his attention didn’t wander, Malcolm’s moans were far too captivating. The sight of his cock dripping, his head thrown back, his long neck exposed. All these required Jamie’s attention too. Whilst his fingers gently worked, carefully scissoring, Jamie used his tongue and lips on every part of Malcolm he could reach. He wanted Malcolm a quivering, writhing mess, he wanted him to shatter in his arms, he wanted to put him back together. He damn well knew that Malcolm hadn’t told him everything, somehow he had to keep them both going.

Eventually, the pull of Malcolm’s fingers in his hair brought him back to himself, brought everything into pin sharp focus. Time slowed, his eyes locked with Malcolm’s he pushed in as slowly as he could, waiting for Malcolm to adjust, waiting for the tiniest of nods, waiting for Malcolm’s fingers to dig into his hips, waiting for him to tell him to fucking move. Malcolm was sucking against his collar bone, marking him again, kissing and licking, keening softly as Jamie increased the pace. Malcolm’s fingers gripped him so tightly he was going to bruise, but he didn’t want him to stop, he just wanted him here with him, present in the moment. Malcolm almost howled when Jamie finally closed his hand round his cock. Matching the rhythm of his thrusts, swiping his thumb through the evidence of Malcolm’s utter arousal, he slid his hand up and down. Tracing the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, he pressed his thumb just under the head and slid carefully over his slit, causing Malcolm’s hips to snap.

They were both close, covered in a sheen of sweat, sliding against each other, mumbling nonsense, saying each other’s names, declaring their love, exchanging expletives, urging each other to just fucking come, both holding on, drawing out the moment, making it last, hating it to end. 

Malcolm shattered first, hot cum over his chest and Jamie’s, a deep groan and he’d have fallen backwards except for Jamie’s arms anchoring him. Jamie following close after, unable to hold on, feeling Malcolm clenched round him – burying his face against Malcolm’s neck, saying his name, over and over – feeling the soft touch of his hand and his lips against his hair.

Lying there, trying to remember how to breath, utterly lost, arms and legs tangled. A moment of perfection.


	4. Truth will out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion
> 
> short, but dramatic

Jamie rolled over, resting his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, making him look at him.

“Tell me, tell me the rest of it.”

The train had arrived on time at King’s Cross. Malcolm had walked back through the train, collecting his case – stuffing his assorted belongings inside, texting Jamie to say he’d be home soon. 

He couldn’t be arsed to fight his way through tourists and commuters and queue for a taxi. He should have. He wrestled his case and himself down to the Underground, fishing in his jacket for his Oyster card. 

He wasn’t concentrating, he wasn’t thinking as he stood on the platform. Part of his attention glanced to look at the time of the next train, most of his mind was on thoughts of a hot bath and a good meal. An evening with Jamie and nothing else. 

He didn’t register the hands against him. One moment he was on the platform, the next he was in mid-air. The sickening lurch as his stomach dropped away and he smacked into the ground. People shouting and screaming, and somehow he wasn’t on the live rail. He rolled and lay flat as the train came in. He thought of Jamie.

Light. 

He wasn’t dead. He was mostly certain he wasn’t dead. Police, first aid, station staff, ambulance crew. His case was gone. Fuck. This time, everything he had was backed up. Copies everywhere, with solicitors, publishers, friends, on the fucking cloud.

He signed anything they put in front of him to get out of hospital. Nothing hurt except his pride. He hadn’t thought he needed to be careful this time.

The police were remarkably interested in what he had to say this time. They wouldn’t let him leave without a protection officer with him. MI6 stepped in. Full surveillance for his home, a briefing in the morning, no fucking arguments.

Jamie looked at him. 

"How the fuck did you just sit there tonight and not tell me? Sit with all that fucking paper, just working?"

"I wasn’t. I didn’t." 

His hand rubbing carefully up and down Jamie’s arm.

"That was all our insurance, my will, I had to make sure you were taken care of, if..."

Malcolm gestured helplessly.

Jamie stopped him, taking him back into his arms, kissing him, holding him, whispering anything he could think of, willing him to sleep, willing him to rest. 

Holding him, feeling him shake, until his breaths became longer and deeper and even, until he was certain he was asleep. 

He didn’t let him go, he didn’t care about the bits of him that were cold, the ache in his knee, he just held him and didn’t sleep.


End file.
